---
Some nights, grief doesn't knock.
It lets itself in. Opens the door like it owns the place.
Takes its shoes off.
Lays beside you in bed like an old lover.
That night was like that.
Zayne needed space.
Nia was gone.
Luca had already left, twice—once physically, once emotionally.
And I was still here.
In the apartment.
With the unfinished paintings.
With my thoughts.
With the letter folded beneath my pillow like a wound I kept pressing just to feel something.
---
I stayed in bed for hours.
Let the sun rise and fall without acknowledging it.
Skipped food.
Ignored messages.
Until I heard a knock on the door.
Not a gentle one.
It was firm. Repeated.
Intentional.
I opened the door, half-expecting Zayne.
Instead—
"Josh?"
Zayne's best friend.
He stood with a pizza box in one hand and a six-pack of ginger beer in the other.
"Don't look so shocked," he said, stepping in like he'd been invited. "He told me what happened. Figured you could use someone who knows how to keep quiet."
---
Josh had always been the comic relief in Zayne's orbit.
Always joking, always loud.
But tonight?
He was calm. Present.
He placed the food on the coffee table. Pulled out two plates like he'd done this a hundred times before.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"Good. That means you're honest."
---
We didn't talk about Zayne right away.
Instead, we watched an old comedy show and ate too many slices.
Then he asked, "You ever wonder why people like us always get left behind?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm like you?"
"I think we both give too much," he said. "And when you give too much, people either get full and walk away—or stay and take more."
I swallowed.
"You think Zayne's like that?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. Zayne's not a taker. He's just scared."
---
We sat in silence for a while.
Then I said, "I think I've made love into a god."
Josh blinked. "Explain."
"I worship it. I chase it. I let it define me. And when it leaves, I act like I've been abandoned by a higher power."
He leaned back. "Maybe it's time you make yourself the altar instead."
---
That night, I didn't cry.
For the first time in weeks… I didn't cry.
Instead, I picked up a paintbrush.
Painted something bold.
Red. Gold. Black.
A woman standing in flames—
But smiling.
---
The next morning, I texted Zayne.
> You don't have to be my beginning, Zayne. But thank you for being my middle—the part that softened the crash.
He didn't reply.
But that was okay.
Because not all silence is punishment.
Some is healing.
Some is space.
And for once, I didn't rush to fill it.
---
Later that afternoon, Isla called.
"I need to tell you something," she said. "About Luca. It's not over."
---